Every winter Mr. Whiston talked of new places which he and Rose would visit
when the holidays came round; every summer he shrank from the thought of
adventurous novelty, and ended by proposing a return to the same western
seaside-town, to the familiar lodgings. The climate suited neither him nor
his daughter, who both needed physical as well as moral bracing; but they
only thought of this on finding themselves at home again, with another long
year of monotony before them. And it was so good to feel welcome,
respected; to receive the smiling reverences of tradesfolk; to talk with
just a little well-bred condescension, sure that it would be appreciated.
Mr. Whiston savoured these things, and Rose in this respect was not wholly
unlike him.
To-day was the last of their vacation. The weather had been magnificent
throughout; Rose's cheeks were more than touched by the sun, greatly to the
advantage of her unpretending comeliness. She was a typical English maiden,
rather tall, shapely rather than graceful, her head generally bent, her
movements always betraying the diffidence of solitary habit. The lips were
her finest feature, their perfect outline indicating sweetness without
feebleness of character.
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